


Glinting Metal and White Fur

by LunerSoul997



Series: To Hear Your Song Again [9]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Canon Divergence - Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Established Relationship, I don't know how to tag this, Light Angst, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Recovery, Self-Hatred, Snow, Werewolf Bucky Barnes, Werewolf Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28682196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunerSoul997/pseuds/LunerSoul997
Summary: The man cocks his head lightly, exposing his neck.Placating, Vulnerable,he registers. "You alright, pal?" Asks the man in a soft voice.Sharp edges and rounded corners. Hot blood and frigid wind. Falling, falling, falling..."... No," he murmurs.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: To Hear Your Song Again [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2031286
Comments: 8
Kudos: 69





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CW for dissociation and panic attacks. Nothing really... explicit, I don't think. It's more implied, but, well, better safe than sorry.

_Crickets chirp. Owls hoot._

There's something both soothing and unsettling about the forest. 

He knows he spent a lot of time in the woods as a boy. He knows he spent a lot of time in the woods during the war. 

Contrasting experiences. He's safe in the woods. There's an enemy around every corner.

_Rustling bushes. A snapping twig._

Blonde and white fur, golden eyes. 

The wolf drops a hare at his feet.

He looks at the hare, stiff-legged and glassy-eyed. He looks at the wolf, lolling tongue and adoring eyes.

"I'm not hungry."

The wolf, of course, does not care. It noses the hare closer and whines. Concern and expectation.

With a sigh, he brings the hare into his lap. He takes his knife and slices it open, throat to groin. He cuts out some meat and brings it to his mouth.

The wolf watches him with blazing gold eyes, insistent.

He bites into the meat. It squishes under his teeth, raw and cool. He has to fight to chew it.

The wolf's tail sways at the sight, a hypnotic back and forth.

With a grimace, he swallows.

"Happy?"

The wolf barks, its tail a blur of movement. It was very happy.

He wasn't happy. But he also wasn't sad. He was complicated.

The wolf had it good. Things were simple as a wolf. Nothing seemed more important than what was directly in front of you.

The moon was black tonight. The blonde wolf had no trouble keeping its form. He wasn't so lucky.

He cuts out another piece of meat. He lays it across his palm and offers it to the wolf.

The wolf eats the meat out of his palm, licking it clean afterwards. Gentle strokes of a velvet-soft tongue, affectionate. 

He deflates. 

The wolf whines, nosing his palm.

He runs his fingers through the wolf's thick mane. The wolf allows him this, ever caring. 

The wolf cuddles up to his side and yawns. The night was young. The wolf was not.

"Sleep," He murmurs. "I'll watch out for us."

The wolf closes its eyes. It sleeps.

He does not.

###

"Do you know who I am?" Is the first thing he asks him. The question does not come as a surprise. The wording bothers him.

He runs his thumb across his palm, his hands in his lap. "Don't tip-toe. Please."

"Okay." A pause. "Do you remember?"

"Some things," he says. Frowns. That wasn't quite right. "Most things? I think... Chunks are missing in between; sometimes hours, mostly months." The man nods but makes no move to speak. So he continues, "I remember my childhood, I remember my sisters and my parents. I remember you."

"So you _do_ know who I am."

His lips twitch, an almost-smile that dies before it can fully unravel. "Yeah, I know who you are Steve."

"And you know who you are."

"More or less." He shrugs. "My name is James Buchanan Barnes, but most people call me Bucky. I was born 10th of March, 1917. I was a Sargent in the army, and was your best friend."

Steve looks like he's trying not to grimace. "Well, yeah. But you can read all of that in a museum, Buck."

"... That's where I got It from."

Steve didn't _frown,_ but he didn't look happy either.

"I'm working on it," he tells him, because he is. And that, at least, seems to please.

"Kinda hard to discover yourself when you're on the run, don't you think?"

He shrugs. "It's worked alright so far."

###

Furniture covered by sheets. Years' worth of dust across every surface. He reaches up and tugs a sheet off of something on the wall. Serene glass eyes gaze down at him, and he shudders. 

He'd never liked taxidermy, the illusion of life and the blank eyes never failed to send shivers down his spine.

"Looks abandoned," Steve says, standing somewhere to his right.

"Lucky us," Bucky murmurs, shaking out the sheet before tossing it back over the mount, mindful of the antlers.

Steve hums, already rifling through cabinets. Looking for anything useful, no doubt. 

Bucky sets about opening windows and shaking out dusty sheets, revealing the furniture. He tries not to think about what would happen if the owner of the cabin showed up. After all, it was unlikely to happen, but it was a distressing thought nonetheless.

"Found some soap," Steve says meaningfully. 

"What're you tryin' to imply, Rogers?" Bucky asks, raising a single brow.

"I'm not implying nothin'," Steve drawls. "Neither of us has bathed with more than water in weeks. We stink."

"Maybe you stink," Bucky mumbles childishly, already exhausted by just the _thought_ of taking a bath. He's exhausted, both mentally and physically. All he wants to do is sleep. 

Steve rolls his eyes and sets the soap bars aside. Still in their wrappers. Bucky eyes the soap with nothing short of complete loathing. "Where're we gonna get the water?"

"There's a creek not far from here," Steve says, gesturing vaguely. 

Listening, Bucky could hear the sounds of running water coming from the west. It was about a mile away by the sound of it and was likely ice-cold given that it was _autumn._

"Joy," Bucky sighs.

"Yeah, yeah," Steve says, waving him off and moving towards the back of the cabin.

Bucky shakes out yet another sheet. Dust blooms into the air and dances in the sunlight. He folds, folds. Blinks. 

He looks down at the pile of folded sheets, all neat edges and clean lines. He could reach out and touch, and he would feel it underneath his fingers. His fingers twitch with the thought. All it takes is a thought. One thought, one twitch, and he would feel the linen. One thought, one twitch, and his target would be eliminated. Mission success.

The voice comes to him slowly, floating on a cloud of white noise and the chant of 'take the shot, soldier'. The voice chants, too, 'bucky, bucky, b-'

"-ucky."

He turns his head and eyes the other man. Concern etched into an angular face. Deep blue eyes, scanning him in turn. _Threat level: low,_ he assesses. 

The man cocks his head lightly, exposing his neck. _Placating, Vulnerable,_ he registers. "You alright, pal?" Asks the man in a soft voice.

Sharp edges and rounded corners. Hot blood and frigid wind. Falling, falling, falling...

"... No," he murmurs.

The other man nods, as though that makes perfect sense. If it does, he is having trouble understanding how.

"Here." And the man holds out a hunting knife. He cautiously takes it, feels more at ease now that he's armed. The man runs a hand through his hair with a drawn-out breath. He watches the dark gold stands shimmer in the sunlight, glinting like metal. 

He stands still, does not move. Can not move. Why? Too risky. Is it?

"I'll find us something to eat," the man finally says. "Will you be alright by yourself?"

He nods jerkily.

The wolf goes out to hunt. The soldier stays behind.

  
###

  
Darkness and moonlight. Shadows and silver. One plays on the hardwood floors, the other houses monsters.

 _Scratch, Scratch,_ at the door. He rises and stalks over. He listens with his ear to the wall, hearing nothing but the wind. Knife in hand, he flings open the door, ready to attack. 

A blonde-white wolf stands on the porch with a hare and a badger held in its mouth. Its tail raises and begins wagging furiously. 

Recognizing the wolf, the soldier steps aside and lets the beast in. It accepts the invitation eagerly, bounding inside. He closes the door behind the wolf and returns to the couch, watches the shadows and the moonlight.

The wolf whines, suddenly in front of him. He blinks at it. Watches as It lays its bounty at his feet with a smug huff. 

Amused by the creature's pride, he gives it a nod of thanks. The wolf pants happily and noses the carcasses towards him. 

He lets out a quiet sigh. 

"Can I at least cook it this time?"

The wolf seems to ponder that for a moment. And the soldier, while undeniably fond of the wolf, soon finds himself growing frustrated with it. Luckily, the wolf, as though sensing his devolving mood, woofs agreeably.

So the soldier begins gathering wood for the stove while the wolf sheds its skin and shakes itself out.

While building the fire in the stove, the wolf hands him a flint and steel. He wonders where it came from, as it hadn't been in his bag. And the wolf, whose ability to read him unsettled him as much as it relieved him, said, "Found it in the drawers."

He looks up at the wolf, with its scruffy beard and untamed hair, with its blue eyes that alight with embers as the fire is sparked, and thinks: _Steve._

He blinks, the fire warming his face and eyes. Furrowed brows and clenching fingers. He takes a deep breath, and thinks of pheasant hearts. 

"Okay?" Steve asks lowly.

He nods, once. Thinks. Nods some more. "Yeah."

Steve hovers his hand over Bucky's shoulder. A question. A request. He arches into it, lets the warmth seep through his clothes and into his skin. Warm like the fire that burns in his chest. Comforting like the charm that hangs around his neck.

Eventually, Steve squeezes his shoulder and pulls away, taking much of the warmth with him, but being kind enough to leave some behind.

By the light of the fire, Steve butchers his kills and Bucky roots around for any cooking utensils.

Unfortunately, he doesn't find anything other than a couple of skewers. Fortunately, he does find salt. For some reason. Who packed this place up? Who the fuck leaves this much stuff behind?

"Rich people," Steve says, once again reading him. "Or a negligent moving crew. Either way, thank God it's there."

Bucky acknowledges that with a hum. Whatever the reason, at least they won't be eating completely unseasoned meat.

Steve salts and slices the meat into strips and Bucky skewers them before rigging them up to cook. Steve also cuts up the organs but refuses to let Bucky cook them, because that would remove their 'flavour'. Like that makes any sense.

Sitting on the kitchenette floor next to the dying embers of the wood-burning stove, they eat the meat in silence. In front of them, the raw, edible organs lay atop the badger pelt and are slowly consumed with the meat.

Eventually, Bucky's curiosity gets the better of him. "You haven't told me about your pack."

"My..." Steve cocks his head. "My pack?"

"The Avengers," Bucky says. "You seem to care for them, so I thought..."

Steve shakes his head slowly. "No, no The Avengers are not pack. Except for Nat and Sam... maybe Clint, if I'm desperate."

"I see," Bucky murmurs and nibbles on a chunk of the raw liver. "So you don't...?"

"Well..." Steve bites his lip. "I have the Barnes'."

Bucky blinks. "Our...? They're still around?" He asks breathlessly.

Steve nods. "Yeah. I mean..." He hesitates, a sad look in his eyes. "Your folks arent around anymore. Becca told me both they passed away in the seventies."

"Becca?" He breathes. "You mean she-?"

"All your sisters are still kickin', Buck," Steve says with a soft smile. "They're a bit older nowadays, but then again, so are we."

Bucky nods. Blinks. He runs a hand over his hair only the ruffle it a moment later and messes it up again. "Jesus."

"Mmm," Steve hums. "Do you..." And he stops there.

"What?"

A sigh. Metal glints in the firelight. Two polished plates, dangling on a chain, proudly declaring the name of a dead man. He watches Steve play with the tags, worrying them between his fingers. He wonders if they still carried his scent, after all these years. "Nevermind."

He scowls. "Steve."

"Would you like to see them sometime?" 

He blinks. He almost scoffs at Steve's hesitation before he remembers this afternoon. How a couple of folded sheets had switched him into the Soldier. He remembers that he mostly _doesn't_ remember. He then remembers that he's a fugitive and that Steve is too and that even if he _does_ want to see them that he _can't_ because he'd be putting them at risk.

"Breathe, Bucky." Steve's voice breaks through the anxiety. And he does. He breathes. And Steve continues, "I meant after this is over. When we aren't on the run and both of us have at least some of our shit together, _then_ we can go visit the girls. If you want to."

He nods. "Yeah, yeah..." He blinks. Takes a deep breath. "I... I think I would like that." His eyes dart up and catch Steve's. Steve, whose smile lights up the room.

"Okay, Buck."

###

"We need supplies."

It's not what Bucky expected to hear moments after waking up. 

He squints up at Steve, who looms over him and who was already up for the day. Bucky tries and fails to make sense of whatever he had just said. 

"What?"

"Supplies," Steve repeats. 

Bucky yawns. "Wha' kinda supplies?"

"Clothes, blankets, a canteen, to name a few,"

He furrows his brow. "Why clothes?"

Steve looks down at his t-shirt, stained with dirt, sweat, and blood, and torn in several places. He raises a single, judgemental eyebrow. 

Fair enough.

Bucky hums. "Well, where do you expect to find all that stuff?" He asks. When Steve hesitates, Bucky's gaze sharpens. "You've gotta be kidding me."

"I'll be careful," Steve offers.

"Steve," Bucky begins, propping himself up on his hands. "I don't wanna be _that_ guy, but we are _fugitives._ We are wanted in over a hundred countries, _including_ this one. If you go into civilization and you're _recognized,_ we'll have to keep moving."

"Bucky," Steve huffs. _"Look at me."_

"I _am_ lookin' atcha," he grumbles. 

"No, I mean, _look at me."_ Steve holds both arms out. "I'm filthy, I have a _beard._ I look like I was just mauled by a possum. People are going to be looking for Captain America. I'm about as far from _that_ as I can get."

"I'd recognize you," Bucky says with a huff. 

Steve lowers himself to the bed. Blue eyes draw him in, wide and sincere. "Bucky, you've known me since we were newborns. We've spent most of our lives attached at the hip. Our souls are bound by blood and magic. You have known every inch of me, every fibre of my being, for as long as there have been things to know. You would recognize me in any form I take."

Bucky takes a breath, looks at his hands in his lap. Steve says that like it's a fact, like even considering anything else was ridiculous. He speaks with such conviction that Bucky finds it hard to believe anything else. 

That doesn't stop him from trying. From trying to convince both of them of the contrary. To convince Steve, more than himself. "I forgot you for seventy years."

And Steve– Steve smiles. For some bizarre reason, he _smiles._ "And yet, here we are."

He looks into blue eyes, filled with honesty and affection. Bucky isn't surprised by the honesty. Steve believes what he's saying whole-heartedly, for better or for worse.

"Be careful," Bucky says. He caves, because he's weak. Weak for this man's words and his earnest eyes. Weak because the fire next to his heart absolutely _glows_ when he feels fingers settle over his wrist, blood-warm, affectionate. 

"I will," Steve says. 

With a sigh, Bucky stands, lets the fingers fall away. He opens his bag and pushes his journals to the side, takes the roll of cash. Offers it to Steve.

"Buck," Steve begins, rising to his feet. 

"Be back before sundown."

Steve hesitates. After a moment, he nods and carefully tucks the cash into his pocket. He stands there for a moment, looking unsure, and almost shy. Seemingly coming to a decision, he opens his arms invitingly.

And Bucky, because he's only mortal, folds himself inside Steve's arms and sucks up the warmth like a sponge. Steve hums contentedly and nuzzles Bucky's hair. Bucky breathes deeply, takes comfort in his scent. His scent and his warmth and the fragile flicker of his heartfire, the twin of the flame that flickers in Bucky's chest.

"Be back," he whispers.

"Be here," Steve says softly.

###

He twirls his knife idly. Eyes on the treeline. Eyes on the sky. Eyes on the sun that sank lower and lower with each agonizing minute. 

Fingers push and pull, turn the knife end over end. He can smell the earth cooling. Can feel the drop in temperature. Can taste the hint of precipitation in the air. Rain. Or maybe snow. Bad either way.

His gaze sharpens and he scans the treeline once more. He sees no flash of white among the red and orange and brown, no glow of gold. He feels every inch of empty space under his skin, tingling, restless.

He longs to shed his skin, to run past the treeline and to seek out the colours that evade him. Oh, how he wants. Wants to shake out his fur and stretch his legs and sing to the stars. Wants to run and play and sing. Sing the song that had been caged inside his chest by shackles and frost. 

He does not give in to the temptation. He watches the treeline and waits. The turning leaves glow under the orange light of the setting sun. A soft breeze whispers through his hair. He twirls his knife. Eyes on the treeline.

Anxiety tightens around at his chest. Restricting and cruel. Thoughts of blood and discovery float in and out, along with panic and stress and worry, worry, worry. The sky darkens into twilight and he tenses, his knife a jerky image in his hand. The wind, now strong and bitingly cold, whips his hair around in all directions.

His nose isn't what it used to be. Something somewhere along his horrific timeline had crippled his sense of smell. He couldn't track a scent, couldn't sense changes in body chemistry. He was a bloodhound with a bum nose, nothing more than a useless mutt who let his hunter wander into a bear's den. 

Helplessness was a familiar feeling. It had never felt this suffocating before. He was running out of oxygen and he didn't know which way was up. 

Silver of the moon, glow of the stars. Restless, helpless, _useless._ Suffocating on oxygen. Glinting metal and white fur. 

He gasps, wide eyes snapping to the treeline. Golden eyes and white fur. He takes a deep breath, tries to find his center, to distance himself from the spiral of despair and horror.

Soft fur pressed against his bicep. A whine of concern.

His arms shoot up to wrap around the wolf. Ragged breaths and itching skin. 

"You're late," he chokes out.

The wolf whines and laves its tongue across his cheek, sweeping away tears he hadn't known he was crying. 

He clings to the wolf tighter, buries his face in its mane. The wolf allows this, even perches itself atop his lap, occasionally giving him licks of reassurance and comfort. All soft fur and soothing whines.

Fur gives way to skin, gentle hands comb through hair. Gentle hands that trail over his shoulders. Heat that seeps into his skin, burrows in his blood.

Sound rumbles from a solid chest, shakes him to his core. Words, spoken with such devastation that his heart caves around them, oozes blood into the flame.

_"I'm sorry."_

A whine, high in his throat. Soothing hands running up and down his back. He shakes his head. 

"I should- I didn't know where– I shouldn't have been _so..."_

He's cut off by a quiet whine. "I shouldn't have left."

An argument rises to the tip of his tongue. He tries to voice it, but it gets trapped in his throat, choking him, mocking him.

A rumble, closer to a sigh than to a growl. "Let's get warmed up."

He looks up into blue eyes, confused. A gesture at the sky. Snow falls into sky-ward facing eyes. He hadn't even realized it was falling.

"Come on," the wolf breathes into his ear. He shivers, unsure if it was solely because of the cold.

He swallows the last of his distress. Takes a deep breath and thinks of white fur and golden eyes. "Okay."

He allows himself to be pulled to his feet. He looks out across the landscape, now coated in a thin layer of frost and bathed in moonlight. 

A warm hand on his shoulder urges him away. 

He lets it.


	2. Chapter 2

"How long will we run?" Bucky asks him.

Steve considers that, looking out across the snow-covered landscape. "Until they give up."

"And if they never give up?"

Steve looks at the other wolf, standing next to him on the hill. The wind scatters rich chestnut curls into his eyes. Eyes that lock with Steve's, the shade of winter ice and the first thaw. He laces their fingers together and presses a kiss to wind-chilled skin. "We run even further, my love."

Bucky's lips twitch. "And when we can run no longer?"

"We bare our teeth and claw our way from damnation."

His eyes drop away to survey the landscape. Snow begins to fall, a gentle sprinkle, decorating his hair in shoulders with specks of white. "Is it worth it?" He asks quietly.

"Is what worth it?" Steve asks gently.

Bucky furrows his brows, a soft expression of unsureness. "The day we can stop running."

"Oh," Steve breathes, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Bucky's ear. "That's worth everything and more."

Bucky nods, and they elapse into silence, looking out across the fields and woodland. Snow drifts down from the heavens, unhurried.

Bucky once more breaks the silence with a question. "Are we good people?"

Steve smiles. "You're the best person I know."

"And you?"

Steve's smile grows strained. He shakes his head. "I don't think so."

"Oh," Bucky says, frowning. He looks up at him, and Steve can almost see the gears turning. "I do."

Steve grins and wraps his arms around Bucky, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. "Yeah?"

Bucky chirrups, a short, melodic sound that should be physically impossible for him to make. Bucky would make lots of weird noises, but Steve doesn't mind. He finds it kind of cute, actually.

"Then I can't be all that bad," Steve says.

Bucky laughs, bringing a hand up to bury in Steve's hair. He doesn't say anything, but his smile says enough to Steve.

Steve sighs, pressing a kiss into the side of Bucky's neck. "We'll rest one day, my love. We will patch ourselves back together and wash the blood from our hands, and we will reclaim ourselves."

"And until then, we run?" 

"Until then, we run," Steve agrees. The snow dances in the air, moving to the song of howling wind and winter birds. And, for the first time in a very, very long time, Steve believes what's coming out of his mouth.


End file.
